Through My Eyes
by Deadly Chakram
Summary: No one sees you quite like your family does.
1. Superman

Summary: No one sees you quite like your family does.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I make nothing. All characters, plot points, and recognizable dialogue belong to DC comics, Warner Bros., December 3rd Productions and anyone else with a stake in the Superman franchise. The first two and a half lines came from a "Complete the Story" book as a story prompt.

* * *

It was odd to be in a room full of people who all seemed to look up to my dad like he was some kind of hero. A part of me wanted to see him through their eyes just for a moment. I tried to picture him as they did - just an alien superhero, separate from them, above them, different in every way. Non-human. They couldn't know what it was like, to _not_ be able to view him like that. To see him as the sometimes flawed, very human, normal man he'd kept so well hidden behind the flashy Spandex of his uniform. To see him for who he truly was - a loving and devoted husband and father.

Oh, I _wish_ I could have seen him as just Superman. It would have made that day _so_ much easier. The day when I had to say goodbye. The day I had to bury my father.

But I couldn't. Because he was never "just" a hero to me. Even back before I knew that Superman was what my father did in his spare time, the caped superhero was a family friend. I always knew that my mom and dad were close friends of his. I knew that they were the ones who'd been there from "Day One," covering Superman's colorful arrival into the world, documenting everything he did to make the world a better place, defending him when the world seemed to turn its collective back on him. And sometimes, on special occasions, Superman would come and visit, and with a knowing nod from my mother, he would take my brothers and me on short flights. They were never more than just that - short flights, usually over Metropolis. We never watched the sun set from the top of the Eiffel Tower or anything like that, even though we all begged and pleaded with Superman to extend the flights and prolong our bedtimes.

It was great fun for us kids, to be friends with the hero everyone looked up to. It made us celebrities, in a sense, amongst our classmates. Even now, at my advanced age, I can remember the look of awe on their faces when we would introduce Superman to our classes for brief visits.

Then, one summer day, Superman stopped being a hero, and, instead, morphed into my father.

I was ten, and it came time for mom to sit me down for "the talk." Most kids get handed a pamphlet or sit through an awkward conversation about their changing bodies and the powerful new urges they will soon be experiencing. I wished - at the time - that I'd been so lucky. Instead, I got a double whammy. Not only would I soon blossom into a woman, I would also, in all likelihood, be developing super powers. Super powers that my father and two older brothers possessed and had completely hidden from me. It was a lot to take in, for all the obvious reasons.

For a few weeks, I was livid. How _dare_ my family keep such secrets from me? Didn't they trust me? Were they waiting until I started to fly before telling me? But, gradually, I came to realize that there had been no choice. Had I known these things as a child, I would never have been able to keep the secret, which would have put my entire family at risk. And the idea of gaining super powers would have terrified me, tainting my happy childhood.

Looking back, I guess it shouldn't have surprised me to find out that I was so biologically different from my peers. I hardly ever fell ill, for one thing. And those few times when I did fall victim to a nasty cold had been mostly in my toddler years. Then there was the fact that I never got hurt. All the cuts and scrapes and bruises that my friends suffered during gym class or recess or weekend get-togethers just didn't occur. In my blissful ignorance of my unique DNA, I'd never really thought about it, or, if I did, I'd chalked it up to being careful or just plain old dumb luck.

With my new knowledge, however, everything began to make sense. My anger melted away and I became grateful that my parents chose to tell me when they did. By the next summer, my body flung itself into puberty with a vengeance. And as my body changed and matured, my abilities began to manifest. Soon, I possessed all the powers of my father. In fact, my powers came so fast and furious that they typically manifested at an earlier age than they had for my father and brothers. Dad always joked that it was because I was the daughter of Lois Lane. Mom always laughed and good-naturedly teased him back.

In those moments, the love between them outshone the sun.

In any case, I've always counted myself lucky, in that my dad and brothers went through the process of controlling their powers first. Their patient lessons chased away the fears that I had as each new ability made its presence known. I was able to find the balance I needed, the control that such powers demanded, with ease. And I made some amazing memories along the way. Even now, well into my golden years, some of my fondest memories are those times alone with my dad - his gentle, loving talks guiding me as I figured out how to fly, or control my heat vision, or worked on tuning my super hearing in and out.

Actually, if we're being honest, out of all of those moments, the ones spent flying were always my favorites. Like dad, I found the sense of freedom gained by leaving the world behind to be both simultaneously exhilarating and peaceful. It was so different, to be flying under my own power, instead of being in my dad's secure embrace. Still, I loved those moments, when he would gather me in his arms and whisk me away into the clouds. So, once in a while, I would ask him to take me flying the way he did when I was a child. Each time, I saw this look in his eyes. It spoke to me of sadness at seeing his daughter growing up and of pride over the woman I was becoming, of fatherly love and of gratitude to have the close bond we shared. I was always sure to cling to him extra tightly on those flights, and he always responded with a silent, comforting squeeze.

Yet as I grew, I remained conflicted about my powers. Should I hide them from the world, the way my dad had in his early years? Should I, like both of my parents, choose a more conventional route in making a difference in the world? Or should I choose to make it known that Superman's daughter was joining the fight to protect the world from whatever evil would befall it? Eventually, I settled on concealing my powers and entering the world of politics. And while I don't like to pat myself on the back, I've always been happy with the positive changes I've helped to bring about in the world. Metropolis was the first city to effectively eradicate homelessness while I was Mayor. And our school system soared to top of the charts.

People have always asked me who inspires me, who are my heroes, if my family's relationship with Superman shaped my world views. And I've always told them that I am, one hundred percent, a product of the upbringing my parents gave me. It was _them_ who instilled the morals and values I've always kept so close to my heart. _They_ are my heroes. Because they were the ordinary people who gave so much of themselves and did so much good for people, all _without_ the help of special powers.

Ordinary people.

My dad always tried so hard to be ordinary. But he never was, not to me. And it wasn't because of his Kryptonian lineage or the abilities that came along with it. It was because of all the times he went above and beyond for his family. It was every time he made it a priority to make it to Chris' soccer game, or Michael's cub scout meeting, or my volleyball match. It was every time he was late coming home from work because he'd stopped to pick up ice cream for dessert, or a new comic book for my brothers, or a new stuffed animal for me when I was young. It was all the times when he got home from a rescue, still caked in grease or smoke or blood, only to shower in mere heartbeats, then patiently spend the night helping with homework or a science fair project. It was all the times he was there to tuck us into bed, read us a story, and kiss us goodnight. It was the way he remained helplessly in love with my mother, though all of us were aware of how easy it would have been for Superman to have anyone in the world he might fancy.

And yet, for all of those moments when he was extraordinary, there _were_ flashes when he truly was a flawed, ordinary man. My brothers and I were no strangers to being accidentally embarrassed by him, particularly during our teenage years, when _everything_ seemed like an embarrassment. There were the sports games and field trips he had to miss, due to work obligations or super responsibilities. I know he always felt so awful when he couldn't be there, but none of us ever blamed him. There were times when I know he paced the house all night long, shaken to the core by some tragedy he'd assisted at, or a rescue that had gone horribly wrong, or near-miss with Kryptonite. He never spoke of them to us kids, not even when we were adults, but I'm certain he shared everything with mom, though she never spoke of it either.

Those moments of ordinariness only served to make him _more_ extraordinary in my eyes.

And I wish, oh I wish, the people gathered for his funeral could have known those moments. Maybe then, they would have understood that Superman was more than a hero. Maybe they would have understood how powerful a thing it was that he was a human man. That he was a husband and father. That he was a humble reporter who spent his days fighting for those who couldn't.

As it stood, they could only see what was left of the hero. Just the shell of a man, aged but still noble even with his spirit gone. They saw only the symbol they'd long since taken for granted. They saw Superman's lofty goals for the world, his eagerness to help, his undimmed passion for justice. They saw that hope that Superman always embodied as less bright, now that he was dead. They saw a body to bury, the same as any war hero - a stiff, unmoving form laying in repose in a casket, which would soon be draped with the American flag. They saw his death in terms of the world - how good people in every corner of this planet were watching Superman's funeral, dabbing at their eyes with sodden tissues, shuddering cries wracking their chests. They saw political opportunities - how would each of them use the death of Superman to further their own agendas? Could they fill in for the hero? Could they continue his work? Did they even _want_ to, despite the fact that Chris and Michael took up the mantle of Superman decades before our father died?

I envied them in their ignorance. I craved their blindness.

They couldn't know the heartbreak, not the way I did. They never saw the heart Superman had. They were oblivious to how human he was. How gentle. How patient. How selfless. They didn't know him as the man who would stay awake all night with his children if they were sick or scared or suffering from heartbreak. They never cried into his shoulder or fell asleep in his arms. They never saw how only his wife's death, a few short years before his own, was the only thing that ever truly aged him.

They lost a hero that day.

I lost my father.

"Madame President," they called to me, signaling that it was time to begin the sterile government funeral Superman was getting.

But the speech I'd prepared felt devoid of meaning, because even in death, no one could know the truth about Superman. No one could know that Superman never really existed, that he was nothing more than a facade adopted by a humble reporter, the son of farmers. Because that would have destroyed the illusion for them. For the world, Superman needed remain the other-worldy, nearly god-like entity he'd always been. He had to continue to be - even in death - the ultimate symbol of hope, truth, and justice. He had to embody that distant goal of a utopian society, a goal which we'd actually begun to make real strides toward, even if sometimes it didn't appear that way. If people knew that Superman was a human man who had loved and feared and took pleasure in simple things like a summer night spent barbequing in his back yard, I worried that they would lose respect for him. And with the loss of that respect, I was truly afraid that we, as a society, might lose sight of the ideals he'd set down.

So my speech was dull and impersonal, meticulously devoid of personality. Oh, I'd taken pains to include a few innocuous anecdotes, in the hopes that they might bring the world a few tremulous smiles as they remembered the alien hero who dedicated his life to bettering our struggling little planet. After all, it had never been a secret that Superman and the Kent family always shared a special friendship. But even those few stories I told weren't linked to my family, but to some of his more famous rescues.

It was only later, when our family had our own private memorial service, that I was finally able to express all the feelings I'd bottled up inside. But, at that moment, as I stood there ready to address my country and the world, those aching tears had to stay locked away behind an unwavering, steely gaze. Sorrow leaked into my words, but only because it was expected of me. I was the leader of this country. To not mourn the world's greatest benefactor would have been unseemly and highly suspicious. So I willingly walked that fine line, of grieving the hero and forcing away the grief for the man.

And every moment, I wished that could experience the funeral with the eyes of the rest of the world. I wished I could, just for an hour, see just the hero, like everyone else. I wished I could ignore the man beneath the suit. Because it would have made every part of that gut-wrenching day so much easier. It would have made that "goodbye" so much less painful.

But I couldn't, because the man laying before me, dressed in the iconic suit of a hero, wasn't a hero at all. He was my father. And that made all the difference.

The End.


	2. Sam Lane

It was odd to be in a room full of people who all seemed to look up to my dad like he was some kind of hero. A part of me wanted to see him through their eyes just for a moment. I tried to picture him as they did - a brilliant doctor who'd saved the careers of countless sports icons. I wanted to see him as the man who'd invented new medical techniques and improved upon existing ones. I wanted to see him as a genius, the way they did.

All I saw was the rat bastard who'd destroyed and then abandoned his family.

And yet, there he was, on stage, blattering on about his latest achievements at a press conference, his chest puffed out with pride, basking in the adoration he saw in every person's eyes. And I wondered why I was even there. I wasn't there as a reporter - Tim was covering the press conference - a fact I was eternally grateful for. Perry doesn't know that Sam Lane, the world renowned sports doctor, is my father, and I want it to stay that way.

I wasn't attending as a proud daughter either. I've long since felt any warmth over our shared bloodlines. Why should I have? I haven't seen much of him in the last six years, give or take, ever since the epic fight we'd had during my final year of high school. That had been the precursor to me moving out of his place. And the few times we _had_ gotten together since then, it has always been stiff and awkward. I think we are usually both more than relieved when those dinners or holiday visits are over and it becomes time to go our separate ways.

So why _was_ I there?

I can only answer with "curiosity."

I wanted to see what he was up to. I wanted to see if maybe, miraculously, he'd changed in the two years that had elapsed since we'd last seen one another, face to face. I wanted to see if I could put aside all the hurt and disappointment he'd caused in my life. I wanted to see him as a hero, the way everyone else did.

So I hid in the back of the crowd, well behind the press, well behind dad's colleagues. I stood behind the other medical professionals who'd come to pay their respects to Samuel Lane - a man who they viewed as a god amongst themselves. I concealed myself in the crowd of what I can only describe as his fans - families who he'd helped, and people who praised him for saving the careers of sports figures they idolized. I've never felt so out of place before. Because I was none of those things. I wasn't a reporter - though I _had_ cheated my way into the auditorium by flashing my press pass. I wasn't a fellow doctor. And I certainly wasn't a fan. I wasn't someone who felt indebted to him in any way.

I was the only person in the room he'd ever wronged.

I made extra certain that he never saw me. I didn't want him to know I was there. Because then I would have had to make the expected small talk and pleasant conversations that blood ties demand. I would have needed to plaster a smile onto my face and pretend to be happy and half-agree to dinners I didn't intend on going to with him.

It's not that I don't love my dad. He's my _dad_. Of course there is a part of me that will always love him. But I can't forgive him for all the hurt he's caused me. I can't look at him and not remember all the fights he picked with mom. I can't hear his voice and not hear disappointment there. I'm only too aware that my dad always wished for sons, not daughters. I don't know why. He's never given any reasoning for that. It's never mattered, the reason why, at least to me. All that matters is that he was given two daughters instead. Two squalling disappointments that emerged from his wife's exhausted, laboring body. Two complete failures at giving him the family he _truly_ wanted.

I've always had to live with that knowledge. And I've always wondered if his harsh criticisms of me have been because that's just who he is or if it's a sick passive-aggressive thing he does because I am Lois, not Louis. He hasn't even had the decency to limit it to one area either. He's always criticized everything. My grades - a ninety-eight meant I had two more points for improvement. My dates - Jack's hair was too long, Kenny seemed unintelligent, Rob looked like a drug addict, even though he wasn't. My career choice - I could have been a nurse instead of a reporter, or a teacher, or a stock broker, or some other, more acceptable choice in his eyes.

It's built up a lot of resentment, over the years. A _lot_. For a long time, I felt like I wasn't good enough, at anything. Not at being a daughter. Not at being a girlfriend. Not even at being a reporter, which, I think is why winning the Kerths that I have has been so important to me. Because, in those moments, when my name has been called and I've stood, dazed, from my seat to make my way onto that stage, I know that I _am_ a good reporter. But those moments are fleeting and the next day I am plain old Lois, only as good as my next story. Still, the wins have been confidence boosters. Along with Perry's guidance and praise, I've managed to shake off some of the shadow of Dad's disappointment in me.

What must it be like, to be my father? To have stood in a room of people who all thought he's some kind of hero. To have his deep character flaws hidden by a pristine white lab coat. To have basked in the worship of the ignorant masses.

It's laughable, really, that Sam Lane could be mistaken for a hero. Heroes are supposed to be selfless and kind. They are supposed to be willing to go the extra mile for people. They are supposed to protect people from harm. They are meant to be dashing and loyal.

None of those requirements have been met by my father. He is not a selfless man. He's always been motivated by the almighty dollar. One day, I swear, he's going to follow the money to the ruin of his career, if he isn't careful. He isn't always kind. He tries, in his own way, but his words and actions don't always mirror one another. Bringing a bouquet of flowers to dinner doesn't erase all of the criticisms or dinners cancelled because "something came up." The only people he's ever gone the extra mile for have been his patients. He's always given _them_ his undivided attention while ignoring the needs of his family.

And you can forget about the idea of protecting people from harm. If he cared at all about that, he never would have slept around with other women. He would have remained loyal to Mom. Maybe her drinking wouldn't have gotten so bad, if her husband had stayed true and given his interest to his wife and children. Of course, Mom's drinking is one of the "reasons" Dad gave when probed about what had driven him to seek companionship outside of their marriage.

Yes, the only people he's ever really helped have been his patients. They've always been his top priority. Everyone else has come second, if they've even registered as important at all.

Pain.

For those in the sports world, he's only ever taken pain away.

For his family, he's only ever been the _cause_ of it.

I hate it. I hate that he's never seemed to care about our family. For once, I'd like to see him genuinely care about _our_ feelings. I want him to do something - anything! - to prove that he really _does_ love us. I hate that, as I looked on today at the press conference, I couldn't look at him with the same respect and adoration as everyone else that had gathered there. I hate that no one else knows the real Samuel Lane - the man who cheated on his wife, who views his daughters as disappointments, who never wanted to be at home - often working overnight shifts in his lab just to be away from us all.

I envied those people today. I craved their ignorance as to the real Sam Lane. I wished I could see him with their eyes - to only know him for the brilliant doctor that he is. And yes, even with my jaded eyes, I can admit that, as a doctor, he is an admirable man who has done a lot of good for his patients. I wished that, barring the ability to see through the eyes of the masses, that they could see him through _my_ eyes. How would they react if they could see their hero's personality laid bare, to be privy to all of the sins he's committed against the people who should mean the most to him? Would they turn their backs on him? Or would they drown him in sympathy, willfully casting him in some twisted way as the victim?

Maybe if I lived in some fairytale world - a place of wonder and magic - that could have happened. I wouldn't have hesitated to weave a spell around myself to blind my mind to all of my father's unheroic deeds and traits. Ignorance is, after all, supposed to be bliss. But I don't live in a world of magic. There are no unicorns, no wizards, no extraordinary man who will swoop in and heal the hurts in my heart that my father - and the world - has caused. There are no heroes.

It's too bad really, because with the family I have, I could really use a hero right about now. Instead, I need to be my own hero. I need to shove aside all of the emotions that seeing my father today brought to the surface. Because tomorrow is a new day. Who knows what surprises it might bring?

And maybe, just maybe, it will bring me a true hero who will save me from myself.

The End.


	3. Perry White

It was odd to be in a room full of people who all seemed to look up to my dad like he was some kind of hero. A part of me wanted to see him through their eyes just for a moment. I tried to picture him as they did - the trustworthy newsman who'd given them the facts for over half a century. And he _is_ trustworthy, my dad. He's dedicated his entire life to giving the world the cold, hard facts of what is happening.

And the truth is, I was proud of my dad as he ambled across the stage and accepted the award he was being presented with for his lifetime achievement in journalism excellence. He was just beaming with pride. It seemed as if years had fallen from him and he was once again a young man in the prime of his life. He had almost a spring in his step and his voice was strong and clear as he gave his acceptance speech.

But as much as I saw the hero that everyone else saw, I also saw the man who'd so often chosen his career over his family.

Looking back with the benefit of age, experience, and hindsight, I now understand how demanding his job was. The world doesn't stop just because the men and women reporting on the news are sleeping, or are eating dinner with their families, or have taken Christmas off to watch their kids open presents. The news is literally a twenty-four hour a day, seven days a week business. Any lapse in vigilance, any moment of perceived "laziness" can cost even the strongest, most respected news source their credibility, perhaps even more than the inevitable mistake in reporting. And honest mistakes _do_ happen. After all, every paper has a retractions section to correct what they've gotten wrong in their haste to scoop the competition and be the first to deliver the news.

My father always knew this. And he was more than dedicated to the _Daily Planet_ , first as a reporter, then, eventually, as editor in chief. His efforts paid off - the paper became one of the most respected publications in the country, and then the world. He and his staff won award after award for excellence in journalism. When people said the word "news," the _Daily Planet_ was the first thing to spring to their minds. It still is, even now that Dad is retired and the paper is under the watchful eye of a new, younger editor.

We, as a family, were so proud of Dad today. But we'd all be lying if we said that his dedication to the paper hadn't taken its toll on us all those years.

It started with the long hours. More and more often, Dad wouldn't be home when we had dinner, or even when we got off the school bus We didn't see him before school either - Dad was up with the sun, chasing the news. Then, little by little, he came less and less to school functions and extracurricular activities. And that hurt. It wasn't that my brother and I were the only ones whose father was unable to attend such things. Plenty of other kids had dads who weren't around, or were serving overseas, or had work obligations that they couldn't get out of. But even the working dads made it to at least _some_ of their kids' events. Our dad was basically known as a ghost. It hurt because it felt like our family came - in every way - second to the rest of the world.

Pretty soon, it began to feel like our family of four was, in reality, a family of _three_. Holidays, weekends, trips were more often spent with just my mother and brother, rather than as a complete family. It became our version of normal, but there was a part of me that always harbored some resentment that I didn't rank higher on Dad's list of priorities than a dock strike or bank hold-up did.

As I grew older, I wound up making a lot of bad life choices as I tried to find something to boost my self confidence. I got in a lot of trouble when I got caught - and I _always_ wound up getting caught. I spent time in prison on three different occasions. It was never Dad's fault - not by a long shot. But, at the time, part of me _did_ want to blame him. If only he'd been around more, if only I'd had more quality time with him, maybe I would have grown up to be a more respectable man. It took me a long time to realize that Dad wasn't responsible for my actions - only I was.

The last time I got in trouble, I only did what I did to try and impress my father. I got mixed up with a couple of shady guys who, as it turned out, were hell-bent on destroying Superman. I was torn - did I have an obligation to save the alien stranger or did I owe it to myself to keep making money, hand over fist, the way I was?

The look in my father's eyes gave me the answer I needed.

He wasn't impressed with the gifts I was able to give him with my ill-gained "employment." He wasn't swooning over the job he thought I had. He wasn't even focused on the lies I'd spun about turning my life around.

He saw me. Only me. Just Jerry White. Just his son. Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing else mattered to him.

And then I saw something else in my father as he realized that I was part of the plot to ruin Superman. Trust.

He trusted me, as a man. He trusted me, as his son. He knew I could make the right decision, if I wanted to. Though his voice pleaded with me to save Superman, his eyes told me that he knew I would. It made it easy for me to close that box of red Kryptonite, giving Superman back control over his powers.

And yet, for all of that, I knew Dad was devastated that I was a part of such a plot to bring down the Man of Steel. He was aghast to see that box in my hands. He was scared - not of what I was doing, but for the trouble I was in. He promised to help me, to be there, no matter what, and, for the first time in a long time, I believed him. It wasn't an empty promise to show up to a spelling bee when I knew, without a doubt, he'd be too busy with a staff meeting or marking someone's article up with one of the red pencils he was rarely seen without. This promise - this solemn vow to be there for me, no matter what - humbled me.

It was the first time I'd ever thought of my dad as a hero, because he was saving me from myself.

My dad believed in me, despite the fact that I hadn't earned his trust at all. It triggered a switch in my brain. I surrendered myself, willingly, to the authorities, whereas once I would have fought tooth and nail to escape justice. I knew I deserved whatever jail sentence the judge would give me as a repeat offender. But I was determined to clean up my life, for real this time. So I worked my butt off. I spent my time in prison taking correspondence classes and finished the college degree I'd start once, years before.

When I finally got out - on a reduced sentence, thanks to Superman putting in a good word for me (another person who's trust I hadn't earned but still somehow found myself gifted with) - I pounded the pavement, putting in resumes wherever I could. Unsurprisingly, I had to start small and pay my dues, as Dad put it. I didn't have many options as a recent parolee, because no one was willing to gamble on an ex-con. Dad offered to find something for me at the _Daily Planet_ , but I didn't feel right about that. So I found a job bussing tables at a restaurant. It wasn't much, but it felt good, to be making an honest paycheck at a job I'd been able to secure on my own. And, more importantly, I knew I was proving to Dad that I deserved the respect and trust he'd given me. Soon, I added a second job, driving a cab in the hours I wasn't at the restaurant. The hours were long and lonely, regardless of how chatty my passengers could sometimes be. All the while, I kept looking for a job I actually wanted.

It took more than a year, but finally, my hard work paid off. I landed a job selling medical supplies. And, if I can pat myself on the back for a moment, I was _good_ at it. So good, in fact, that I was able to climb the ranks relatively quickly. Before long, I was a supervisor and making a very comfortable living. For the first time in a long time, I was _happy_.

My job wasn't the only thing that improved either. My social life was getting better too. I made new friends, leaving behind many of the toxic ones I'd once known - men and women who'd helped lead me down the dark paths I'd once wandered. A few saw how much my life had changed and asked for help in changing their own lives around, and I happily gave them what help and advice I could. Six months into my sales job, I met Anya. She was the dentist I saw after I chipped my tooth during a game of basketball with Jimmy. We started dating, fell in love, and two years later, we married. Two years after _that_ , our daughter, Erica, joined us, and my heart was complete.

And my relationship with my father? It grew stronger by the day. He was proud of me - truly proud! - that I kept my word to become a better man. I came to slowly realize how much he'd given up during my youth - and how much that had hurt him to do - to bring his career to where it was. That was an important revelation, to recognize the fact that Dad had hated all of the sacrifices he'd needed to make in order to become successful in the news world. It colored all of my memories of those missed holidays and events, the days when my mother, brother, and I went without seeing him at all. What resentment I still had left - and it wasn't much by that point - finally slipped away. I still grieved the loss of the memories that could have been, and I still do, in a way. But I understood his reasons why he'd done what he'd done. It was the best way he knew how to provide for his family. It was his way to doing some good in the world.

Still, I didn't wish to live my life like my dad had. I didn't want to share the same regrets he had, of not seeing his kids grow up. I made certain that my career choices catered to two specific criteria. The first was that it had to be something I loved and could make a comfortable living doing. And the second was that it had to be flexible enough to allow me to be an active part of my daughter's life. I can't say that I made it to every single awards ceremony and sporting event, but I made it most of them, making doubly sure that I was there for all of the most important ones.

My dad.

He's not a hero for all the years he's given himself over as a servant of the public. He's not a hero for his part in putting criminals in jail, exposing fraud, or bringing the public's attention charity events. His flaws aren't the retractions he's had to print over the years or the investigations that went wrong in his earliest days as a reporter.

He's a hero because he believed in me when no one else would. He's a hero because he was the first to trust me to do what was right. He's a hero because, without him, I'm not sure I ever would have found the strength to turn my life around. Without his encouragement, I'm not sure I would have _wanted_ to. His flaws - as I'd grown to think of them over the years - showed me just how human he is. And that made all the difference. He wasn't a mythical god or hero. He was a simple man who gave his all for me, even when I hadn't been able to see it.

The public could worship him or villainize him as they see fit. Dad never cared much for how people viewed him as a person, only that they trusted his paper to give them the unvarnished, unbiased truth. As a result, the opinions of the masses have never mattered to me either.

Perry White will always be my own, personal hero.

The End.


	4. Jor-El

It was odd to be in a room full of people who all seemed to look up to my dad like he was some kind of hero. A part of me wanted to see him through their eyes just for a moment. I tried to picture him as they did - as a respected scientist, a member of the Council of Elders, a crucial member of their society. As someone who had tried to save them all.

But, try as I might, I couldn't. I'd never truly met the man, after all. All I knew of him was a far too brief glimpse he'd left for me - secured in a globe of Krypton that I'd never even known existed until a couple of short years ago. And those messages, though they served to fill in some of the past for me, mostly just made my parents seem more mysterious than ever. Oh, it gave me a startlingly clear picture of what they had looked like. So clear, in fact, that I could see myself in them. Mom's eyes and nose. Dad's jaw line and build. I suppose, if I'd been gifted with longer messages, I would have picked up on mannerisms and personality traits that mirror my own. But I wasn't given that luxury. Dad simply hadn't had the time to relay anything more than the most crucial, straight to the point messages.

All I know is, I am grateful to have been given even that much.

Without that globe, without those holograms, I would have spent the rest of my days without any knowledge of my past - the how and why I was sent away from my birth world, through the cold emptiness of space, and to my true home of Earth. My parents would have never been more than faceless, shadowy figures in my mind's eye.

Still, it wasn't easy to hear that story. To learn about how Krypton was on the verge of collapse. To know, for certain, that my birth parents died, unable to save themselves, wiped out in a single, blinding instant when the planet tore itself apart. To recognize that, despite the fact that my parents - Jonathan and Martha Kent - are alive, I am an orphan. Until that moment, there'd always been a part of me that had harbored a hope, if not a belief, that I might one day meet the people who'd given me life.

Yet for all the agony of learning about my past, at the time when the messages started appearing for me, I craved the entire story at once. I couldn't understand why Jor-El had opted to chop up the information into five brief segments. But at the end of it all, once the holographic image of my father had faded into non-existence and I had time to reflect on all I'd learned, I was glad that I hadn't been shown it all in one sitting. By giving me five different messages, spread out over the course of several days, Jor-El had ensured that I had time to digest each piece of information before hitting me with another piece of that tragic story.

Of course, even with each question that found an answer, more arose. I wanted to know more about Krypton. I wanted to know more about the people who'd given me life, twice over - once in birth, and once in their gamble to send me to Earth. _Who was_ Jor-El? _Who was_ Lara? Were they important people in their society? Were they average citizens? Did they rank amongst whatever passed for poor on Krypton? What had they done for a living? How had they met? Had they celebrated many years together, or had they been fairly newlywed when they'd needed to send their baby away? What had they been like? Had they been artistically or musically inclined, or gifted athletes? Had they been bookworms?

So many questions. And no way to ever find out the answers. That was, until Zara and Ching barged their way into my life. In an instant, the universe, as I understood it, tilted on its axis and spun violently around. Everything I thought I knew about Krypton and its fate changed. Suddenly, I wasn't the only survivor, as I'd once feared and then sadly accepted. There were others. More than I would have ever dared to hope for. Less than I knew they needed to truly save their civilization and race.

They needed me to save their people from Lord Nor, an evil, sadistic nobleman who'd been chomping at the bit to marry Zara and seize the throne for himself. He was a madman, they told me, and his rule would only serve to cement the demise of what remained of Krypton. I had to go back with them, they said, to New Krypton, to rule alongside Zara, who was my wife since birth. I didn't want to go, but I saw no other way to protect the people who shared my heritage. I couldn't let an entire race of people suffer and die if there was even the slightest chance I could help.

It was a debt I owed to my parents.

So, reluctantly, I agreed to help. I said goodbye to Lois, to my parents, to Earth. It killed me inside, and all I could do was cling to the hope that, one day, I'd be able to return to where I truly belong. With a broken heart, I entered a world that was completely alien to me, though I never even stepped foot on another planet.

Once aboard the Floating Palace - as they called it - I found myself in a unique situation. I was constantly surrounded by nobles, Elders, and military personnel. I rarely had contact with the general populace - something I promised myself I would rectify once the threat of Nor was neutralized. I was completely out of my element, even though I was used to taking charge of situations as Superman. Now, I was expected to take on that leadership role again, only I wasn't quite sure how. I was flying blind, trying to learn all I could about the strange customs I was faced with.

But it was how everyone viewed me that threw me for the biggest loop. Some of them looked at me with hope in their eyes. Others gazed at me with admiration - more because I was the son of Jor-El than because of what I'd given up to help them. Most looked at me with mistrust - and I couldn't blame them. After all, I was a total stranger plucked from an alien world to lead a people I had no real knowledge about. Others were openly hostile and combative to whatever I had to say. I understood their resistance too. How could they trust that I would do what was best for them? I wasn't a Kryptonian to them. I was an Earthling.

Truth be told, I felt the same way about myself.

Being surrounded with people who were, biologically, just like me only drove home the fact that, for all of my differences from Earthlings, I'm not really Kryptonian. In blood, yes. In every way that _actually_ counts though? No. I am an Earthling.

I was the last thing they expected the son of Jor-El to be. He was their shining hero. I was their grand disappointment.

I didn't have much time to myself during that ordeal. From the moment I stepped aboard the Kryptonian mothership, to the time Nor was defeated and Zara was married to Ching, I was kept perpetually busy. Meetings with the Elders. Meetings with the military commanders. Meetings with the nobles from the other ruling Houses as I tried to make even tentative alliances. Strange ceremonies that cemented my marriage to Zara and, in turn, my authority as their leader. Eating and sleeping became a luxury I could barely afford. I took every meal I could as I worked, dreading the scrutiny of the nobles that came with every shared meal I was forced to attend. I could scarcely spare any moment for anything. It felt like every second wasted brought Nor closer to achieving his goal of killing me and destroying New Krypton. I slept in short, fitful bursts, my mind too full of worries over how to avoid a civil war. And, quite frankly, it was too hard to sleep without hearing Lois' voice before I closed my eyes. Instead, I'd spent most of those lonely private hours staring out the windows, my gaze locked on to where I knew Earth would be, talking to Lois in the privacy of my own thoughts, wishing she could hear all I had to tell her.

But for all that I disliked about the situation, I did manage to find a few bright spots. The more time I spent with the rest of the Kryptonians, the more I learned about their culture and history. It was an invaluable experience, but what I truly wanted to learn about was my family. At first, with the threat of Nor, learning about Jor-El and Lara wasn't relevant to the task at hand, so I bite back my questions, hoping that, at some point, I would get the opportunity I was waiting for.

I never got that chance, until I'd nearly died fighting Nor.

With the death of Nor and his cohorts - and the arrest of Jen Mai, who'd been uncovered as a traitor - the Kryptonians suddenly found themselves free. And so was I. My marriage had been annulled during the sham of a trial that "proved" me to be a traitor and unfit to rule. Finally, I was no longer duty-bound to the people who shared my heritage. But that didn't mean I was finished with them yet. I had questions. So many questions. And, for the first time, I found myself with an abundance of time to ask them.

So I did.

I sought out Trey, the Chief Elder, since he was one of the few allies I'd made during my time aboard the space craft. And, more importantly, he'd known my parents well. I asked him every question I could think of, and finally filled in the missing pieces to the images of my mother and father. In fact, I learned more than I ever would have dared to dream I would. And what I learned broke my heart.

Jor-El had been one of the members of the Council of Elders. Not the Chief Elder, - that had been Trey's predecessor - but one of the Chief's most trusted confidantes. My father had been a brilliant scientist as well, and Lara worked tirelessly alongside him. Together, they'd invented many things which had bettered the lives of everyone across Krypton - from the most influential nobles to the poorest of the poor. Everyone on the planet had respected him. And then, by chance, a few of their breakthroughs hadn't gone as planned and they - Jor-El, in particular, - had lost some of their credibility. So no one had taken his warnings seriously enough when he'd said that the planet's core was destabilizing. Years went by, and he continued to try to get people to believe him. But it was only when the planet began to quake with frightening frequency that people finally began to listen to him.

By then, it was too late. Only a select group of men, women, and children were able to be saved by boarding the mothership. Their mission had been to find a suitable home to rebuild Krypton on, and then shuttle everyone to that new planet. My birth parents had been scheduled to be a part of the mission, but by then my mother was pregnant with me. Chance caused the pregnancy to be a difficult one, grounding them both from the mission. But my father looked ahead to the future and knew time was growing short. Knowing he didn't have time to build a vessel big enough for everyone, he built a tiny spaceship just large enough to accommodate a newborn. That ship would be sent across the lonely universe to a planet where I would have a real chance at survival.

Lois was by my side when I learned all of this and I could not have been more thankful that she was. I'm rarely one to shed tears, but at the end of the tale, my cheeks were wet and my vision was obscured by a crystalline sheen of salt water. I let the tears fall silently as Lois hugged me to herself, as though she believed that her embrace was the one thing in all the universe that would keep me from falling completely apart. She wasn't wrong about that. I drew strength from her presence and felt my heart hurting far less than I know it would have if I hadn't had her love there to protect me.

Finally, I understood the hero-worship everyone seemed to possess in regard to my father. It suddenly all made sense, why I'd been so heavily scrutinized. And why I'd apparently failed to meet their lofty standards.

When I'd first arrived onboard the Kryptonian vessel, I wasn't just a stranger to these people. I was the son of Jor-El. Though I had no memory of the man, they had expected me to be like him. I'd been built up in their minds to have the same singular dedication to the Kryptonian people as he'd once had. I'd been expected to drop my life on Earth, hungry for the chance to rejoin my people, and give my life over to the role that had been prepared for me - husband to Zara and ruler of New Krypton. Instead, they'd found a man with his loyalties split - torn between wanting to help the people of his blood and staying on Earth with the people he loved. They found an Earthling at heart, when they'd spent decades looking for a Kryptonian.

As a leader, I was more than questionable to them, particularly once Nor was on Earth, wrecking havoc wherever he went, which, by his own design, had been my home of Smallville. I'd been expected to rush in, heedless of the danger to the people of Kansas, leading troops to do battle with him. My refusal to do so made me appear weak - so unlike the man who'd bundled his newborn son into a rocket in a desperate attempt to save his life. It showed them that my heart belonged to the people of Earth. I was an unworthy leader. I was unworthy of Zara. All because I valued human life. They felt as though I'd chosen humans over them, when, in reality, I was tearing myself apart inside, trying to figure out how to keep anyone - human and Kryptonian alike - from losing their life.

I failed. People died, despite my best efforts. I almost lost my own life.

But in the process, I'd inadvertently earned the grudging respect of the Kryptonians. Maybe they didn't look at me quite the same way as they had looked at Jor-El, but, for a fleeting moment, I felt a connection with my father, like he was there, amongst those strangers, nodding his approval of me.

I finally understood the reverence everyone felt for Jor-El, and it was beautiful.

It was exactly the closure I'd needed. I felt no guilt, no sense of remaining duty to the Kryptonians, as I said my farewells. It didn't bother me that I would never again have contact with the living remnants of my heritage. Oh, sure, I would - and do! - miss Zara and Ching, who I'd become fast friends with, but losing them would be the only true loss I would feel. Because, as everyone else had seen in me, I'd come to answer the great question we all have at some point in our lives - _Who am I?_

That answer was blindingly clear.

I am not Kal-El, though I _am_ the son of Jor-El.

I am Clark - a reporter, the son of farmers, and now husband to Lois Lane.

I am an Earthling, who happens to have been born on Krypton.

The End.


	5. Jack Olsen

It was odd to be in a room full of people who all seemed to look up to my dad like he was some kind of hero. A part of me wanted to see him through their eyes just for a moment. I tried to picture him as they did - a man who'd spent his life saving the world, one mission at a time. But try as I might, I failed. To me, he wasn't this super hero, this pillar of truth and justice. Because, for most of my life, he was barely even my father. For so many years, he'd been almost a stranger to me. A stranger who I'd only just begun to finally get to know.

Still, on that day, he was, at best, an acquaintance.

To everyone gathered at his retirement celebration, Jack Olsen was the best of the best. He was a super spy, the one they called in for their most critical missions. He was a man's man - rough and tumble, never one to shy away from getting his hands dirty, and who could charm the pants off anyone. He was brave, calmly accepting any and all missions without so much as a glimmer of trepidation in his eyes. He was strong. Nothing seemed to ever get under his skin or bother him. He was loyal. He completed his missions, no questions asked - a trait which he would later come to regret, as it turned out. He was meticulous. No loose ends were ever left hanging.

To me, he was a lousy father.

In hindsight, of course I understood why he'd kept such a massive secret from his family, about what he _really_ did for a living. His life depended on secrecy. If it had gotten out at all, that he was a spy, his enemies would have sought him out and killed him. There was no room for error, no forgiveness if the information had leaked. And, let's face it, it could have easily gotten out. I was, for lack of a better word, a chatty kid. It wouldn't have taken much for me to accidentally make an off-handed comment to a friend - some moment of beaming pride - to show off how cool my dad was. And that would have gotten him killed, and likely tortured for his secrets beforehand. I would have been responsible for my dad's death.

But ensuring his own safety meant making sacrifices.

Jack Olsen, spy extraordinaire, kept the free world together as his personal life and family crumbled under his own feet.

The nature of his job demanded that he travel a lot. So much so, that it felt like he was _never_ home. And when he _was_ home, he was often withdrawn and thoughtful, choosing to be on his own in his personal study. I know now that he was preoccupied with preparing for missions or coming back from ones that had been more difficult than he'd anticipated. The more they were apart, the more that communication broke down between my mom and him. They stopped sleeping in the same room. They barely spoke with one another. The few, fleeting conversations they _did_ have were strained and full of anger and accusations. Mom grew depressed, thinking my father had lost interest in her, or was having an affair, or was involved in crime. I know that at one point, she even wondered if he'd gotten hooked on drugs. I think she would have kicked him out of our home if it didn't already feel like he didn't live there anymore.

As a result, my relationship with my dad deteriorated fast. How could I have a close relationship with someone who was essentially a ghost? It's not that I didn't _want_ to be close with my father. It's just that it was impossible. Either he wasn't home or he and Mom were fighting. I was just a kid, so I dared not try to break up their arguments. I hid, alone, in my room, tinkering with my electronics. Or I left the house with my camera, hoping to photograph something beautiful to take my mind off of what was going on at home. At first, it was a way for me to find some peace, but before long it became a passion. And, eventually, it became my career.

It was no surprise when Mom and Dad finally called their marriage quits. I remember thinking that I should have been upset or shaken up by the divorce. Instead, I felt a mixture of relief and anger. I was glad that the fighting would stop and hoped Mom would find someone else who treated her the way she should have been. And I was angry that Dad forced her into a position where she felt she had no choice but to file to dissolve their marriage.

Still, I wanted to be a part of my father's life. And, more importantly, I wanted him to be a part of _my_ life. So I tried - _hard!_ \- to keep the lines of communication open. But it was difficult, since I never really knew where he was at any given time. Mostly, I had to wait for Dad to contact _me_. I'd look forward to his sporadic phone calls, and try to keep him on the line as long as I could. But, eventually, those phone calls grew strained and I found myself struggling to keep the conversation going. Once in a while, Dad would be in town, and we'd try to get together. But those times weren't very often. With Dad being newly unattached, he threw himself into his work with fervor- taking on more time consuming, more difficult missions. Years would pass between his visits. I felt forgotten. Discarded. Unloved.

Oh, Dad tried, in his own way, to make sure I wasn't _completely_ abandoned. Sometimes, a gift would come for me in the mail. It was usually something he'd come across "in his travels" and would come with a short note attached, saying that he missed me, that we'd talk soon, that he'd seen whatever the item was and thought of me. In retrospect, I guess those packages were mailed after he'd moved on from those areas - I'd never actually looked at the postage on them.

Dad's attempts to stay a part of my life backfired. Instead of feeling closer to him or like I really meant something to him, I felt ever more distant. The gifts felt like buy-offs, like he was trying to purchase my love. I wasn't ungrateful. Not at all, I swear! But the truth was, all I really wanted was to see him, in person, more than once every few years. I wanted a genuine conversation with him, where he took interest in me and didn't appear to be preoccupied with other things. I wanted one holiday spent together. I wanted him to pat me on the back and tell me that he was proud of me.

I wanted him to show me how much he loved me simply by being there.

But, he wasn't. He _couldn't_. He had little to no say in the assignments he was given. He took them without knowing how long he'd be gone, or how dangerous things would get, or if he'd ever come home alive. He spent every day he wasn't on missions not knowing when the next one would come in - if he'd be able to relax for a month, a week, mere hours. His life hadn't been his own in those days.

I wish I'd known, back then. Once I was old enough to understand and appreciate the gravity of the secret, I wish I'd known the truth about my father. I would have guarded it with my life, as I did once the truth accidentally spilled out during that NIA scandal. Dad could have trusted me. Instead, he chose to keep me at an arm's distance - to protect me, I know now. But at the time, it felt like the coldest rejection, particularly when he appeared to take more of an interest in Lois and Clark than his own son.

I would have been able to see past my Dad's actions and been able to embrace the way he tried to keep Mom and me safe. I wouldn't have harbored quite so much resentment and anger in my heart. Oh, I'm not native enough to believe that I would have been able to keep _all_ of the bitterness out of my heart. After all, when it came right down to it, he still chose a job over his family. I would have wondered why he couldn't just walk away from such a high stress, demanding, potentially deadly job. I would have wondered why his family didn't rank higher on his list of priorities. _But_ , I also would have been able to - I hope! - talk to him about it. And yeah, maybe we would have fought about it. But at least I would have known that it wasn't my fault or Mom's fault that our family fell apart.

It would have helped, even if it wouldn't have cured the hurt I would have inevitably felt.

As it was, I didn't find out about Dad's spy work until I was grown up, living on my own, and established in my career. I'd already had my heart hurt too many times by my father. So the resentment was already there, and it made forgiveness harder than it might have otherwise been. That's not to say that I didn't work on forgiving him, just that it wasn't as easy as it might have been. Still, we both acknowledged that we had a long way to go before we could consider our relationship mended. And that made all the difference. Because there was Dad, the hardened super spy, admitting that he'd failed in his role as a father, and humbly asking for the chance to make things right. It wasn't a me versus him thing. It was both of us, working together to mend all the scars in our relationship.

It took time, but, eventually, we did it. We got to a point were I could genuinely forgive him for the toll his job had taken on our family, because I understood how vital he'd been to protecting the country. We got to the point where Dad felt comfortable and easy in his role as a father to me, because we'd both finally let down our guards around one another. We learned how to trust each other and respect each other as men.

Still, Dad kept up his work as a spy. And part of me resented that, even though I agreed that he would never be able to be the guy who took a desk job and defended America from an office. Though I encouraged him to keep doing what he was doing, out there in the field, there'd been a part of me that had hoped he'd at least consider backing off just a bit, so he could spend more time with me. More than that, I was terrified for him. Every day that passed when I didn't hear from him, I wondered if he was safe, if he was on assignment, if he was still alive.

I was never so happy as when he announced his retirement. At last, I could breathe easy. I could stop worrying so much if a couple of days passed without a text or email from him. But for all of that, we still had a long way to go, in terms of really connecting with each other. We were still mostly just amiable acquaintances. With him being gone so often, we hadn't gotten much of a chance to really get to know each other.

So his decision to retire was, for me, an opportunity to really, truly, get to know Jack Olsen - as a man, as a friend, as a father.

As it had been before, the process was slow. Dad didn't want to live in Metropolis. He said he'd had enough of bustling, overcrowded cities. He chose, instead, to move to a quiet little community in Connecticut. He bought a modest, comfortable home on a decent plot of land, where the deer wandered in the early mornings and on golden evenings, and where he had neighbors to keep the loneliness at bay without them being suffocatingly close. And against all odds, he genuinely became happy there.

It was weird, to see my dad staying in one place, instead of jet-setting his way across the globe.

I visited as often as I could, now that he was always in one place, and close enough that I could drive up and back home to Metropolis over a weekend. And Dad came in as often as I went to visit him, giving us ample opportunity to begin to get to know one another on a deeper level than had ever been possible up until that point. Eventually, even Mom started talking to him again, once the truth of his former life as a spy came out into the open. That was something - to see them both getting along without yelling or slamming doors or slinging accusations at each other. It was a long time in coming, to be sure, but it meant the world to me, the first time we were all able to peacefully coexist at a nice dinner out one night when they both happened to be in town. When it was all over, and I was back in my own house, I had the chance to really absorb what had happened that night. I felt like I was living in a dream - it just felt so unreal how far the three of us had come in repairing our relationships with one another.

By then, I was a father myself, to a happy-go-lucky little girl and studious, yet goofy not-quite teenaged boy. For so long, I'd done my utmost to be exactly the kind of man my father hadn't been. I stretched myself thin to ensure that I could provide for my wife and children, enough to give them the most comfortable lives they could want, while making sure I was as involved with their lives as I could possibly be. Sometimes, it was overwhelming. After all, being a photographer for a newspaper - even one so prestigious as the _Daily Planet_ \- wasn't exactly going to make me a rich man. My wife had to continue working as a paralegal, and took courses at night to become a divorce lawyer. You know, I still don't know how she does it. I would find it depressing to watch couples fighting it out over everything from their bank accounts to their kids, but she's always said that it's easy for her to tune out the negativity and leave her work in the office at the end of the day.

Everything we did, we did for our children. We made sure that one or both of us was always there, front and center, for every school play, sports game, honor ceremony, or Cub Scout/Girl Scout event. I wish I could say that I, personally, made it to every single event, but that would be a lie. The truth is, as much as I tried to schedule around their events, it wasn't possible for me to be there for everything. At first, having to admit that to myself, I felt like a failure. I felt like I was becoming my own father, the man who was never around for his son. I panicked, and I'm not even ashamed to own up to that.

It was my wife who made me realize that I was nothing like my father. Though I couldn't make it to every single event, I was doing my best. And when I _was_ able to go to something for my son or daughter, I made the most of it. Quality over quantity, she often reassured me. That was what was most important. I wasn't making quick, barely-there, cameos at the events I attended. I was _there_ \- fully invested in what was happening, my attention focused on my children, doing what I could to make it memorable for them.

More than that, we spent time together every day. Family meals. After dinner walks. Weekends spent at the park. Day trips to the zoo, or the aquarium, or a museum. Visits to the local ice cream store for no reason at all. Bedtime stories. Vacations.

All things I had missed out on doing with my dad.

All things I cherished doing with my kids.

So, that night? The night when my parents were able to sit down to a civil meal together and begin to repair their well-damaged relationship with each other? It made me look at my father differently that I'd ever viewed him before. Suddenly, I could see why his peers looked at him like he was a hero.

But that hero-worship was different for me. I knew, of course, that he was a hero who'd saved the free world time and time again. But that wasn't what made him a hero in my eyes. Instead, it was the way he humbled himself, seeking our forgiveness for the sins he'd committed against his family, and his willingness to do whatever it took to make amends. That was what _truly_ made him a hero in my eyes. It shifted everything in my mind. For the first time in my life, I found myself looking toward him as an example of what a man should be like, instead of what a man should strive not to be at all costs.

For the first time, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Jack Olsen was a hero in his own right.

The End.


End file.
